


A Kiss to Die For

by hannasus



Category: Castle
Genre: 1940s, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, F/M, Gen, Mystery, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannasus/pseuds/hannasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick Castle re-imagined as a hard-boiled private detective in 1940s Los Angeles, with Kate Beckett as the femme fatale who gets him into trouble.</p><p><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a tribute to Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, two authors who would have been tremendously influential to a mystery writer like Richard Castle. Many references throughout my story were taken directly from their works.

  
**~ ONE ~**   


Rick Castle was a handsome mug in a badly-tailored gray flannel suit. He had a hard mouth offset by a pair of dark, playful eyes and his straight brown hair was brushed back from his deceptively youthful-looking face. He sat alone at a table in the far corner of the Delmar Club, listening to the King Leopardi Orchestra play.

The Delmar was hopping, but not so full it felt crowded. The orchestra was tucked into an archway, horns and strings playing seductive Duke Ellington melodies to set the mood. There was no dance floor, just a long bar along one wall and a lot of small round tables with crimson tablecloths filling up the rest of the space.

Castle signaled a waiter in a midnight-blue dinner jacket and ordered a gimlet. A few minutes later the waiter came back and set his drink on the table.

“Where’s the owner?” Castle asked without looking up.

The waiter stiffened, his lips twitching neurotically. “Mr. Raglan? Is there a problem, sir?”

“No problem. I just want to pay my respects.”

“He’s over there, sir, near the microphone.” He pointed to a corner of the band shell.

Castle produced a crisply-folded five-dollar bill between two blunt fingers. The waiter snatched the bill and scampered off.

John Raglan, the owner of the Delmar, was a thin man in his fifties with a bald head and a long nose. He held a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, and smiled broadly at everything and everyone around him, playing the part of the benevolent host. Castle watched him for a while, then let his gaze slide around the club, taking in the other patrons.

One woman in particular caught his attention. She was sitting alone at the bar and had a mane of glossy brown hair that seemed to catch all the light in the joint. Her eyes were dark and cold in her heart-shaped face. A black velvet beret was perched rakishly on her head and her dress was a burgundy silk number that was tight in all the right places. She was smoking a long, thin cigarette and tapping it absently against the edge of the ashtray. A pale amber-colored drink sat in front of her untouched, the ice mostly melted. She stared into a big gilt mirror behind the bar, watching Raglan with a gaze like steel cable. Her eyes followed him as he moved among the tables glad-handing the customers.

Raglan’s meandering progress through the room didn’t carry him anywhere near the woman and he never once glanced in her direction. If he was aware of her presence or the fact that she was staring at him he didn’t show it. After a while he drifted past Castle’s table, with a friendly smile and a clap on the back. “My office, half-an-hour,” he said coolly and quietly.

Castle turned his eyes to the orchestra. “The E-string on the bass is a half-tone flat.”

Raglan followed his gaze and nodded. “That’s the way the King likes it. Melancholy.” He moved off to the next table and launched into a racy joke for a couple of pot-bellied banker-looking types. When he hit the punchline the fat bankers laughed loudly, snorting until their faces turned red.

After a while Raglan edged his way back over to the band shell, hitting a few more tables along the way. He threw one last quick glance over his shoulder at the club before disappearing behind a pair of thick red curtains.

The brunette at the bar didn’t move. She puffed on her cigarette and ran a vermillion-tipped finger idly around the edge of her glass. A minute passed. Then two. Then five. She crushed the cigarette out in the glass tray and took a sip of her watery drink. Then she stood up, reached for her bag, and followed Raglan into the back of the club.

Castle leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully sipped his own drink. It was too heavy on the bitters. He set it back on the table and pushed it away.

A minute later the brunette reappeared through the curtains, looking two shades whiter than when she’d gone into the back. She walked over to the bar, reached for her drink and knocked back the whole thing. Then she tossed some money on the bar and started for the door.

Castle stood up abruptly and moved towards the door, setting a course to intercept her. His steps were clumsy, like a man who’s been served one too many. He made it to the door just ahead of the brunette and paused, blocking the exit. Then he swung around suddenly, like he’d forgotten something, and bumped into her. Her bag went flying out of her hand, spilling its contents onto the floor. The woman started and stepped back.

He went to one knee, apologizing loudly, and started pushing her stuff back into her bag. There was a hotel room key, a mother-of-pearl compact, a nickel cigarette case, and a matchbook from the Hobart Arms. There was also a white lace handkerchief, a couple of crumpled dollar bills and odd silver, and a folded piece of paper with a ragged edge that looked like it had been torn from a memo pad. When he went for the paper the girl stooped and snatched it out of his hand. He stood up and offered her the bag. “How’s about I make it up to you by buying you a drink?”

She caught the bag out of his hand roughly and stuffed the paper back in. “Not interested.”

“Sure about that, sweetheart?” He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. Her skin smelled of Shalimar. One of his ex-wives had worn that scent. It was the only thing he remembered fondly about her.

She jerked away, her lip curling into a sneer. “Get lost, creep!”

Castle smiled and stepped aside. The woman hurried past him and out into the street.

When she was gone he made his way back through the club, over to the side of the band shell. The curtains were shabby-looking up close and opened onto a dim hallway. He tried the first door, which turned out to be a custodial closet. The next was a storage room. The third door he tried led to Raglan’s office.

There wasn’t much light in the room, just a small yellow reading lamp on the desk that cast a sickly glow on the polished wood. The green carpet was worn and stained. On one wall was a louvered door, probably leading to some kind of closet. There were no windows. The air was close and warm, with a thickly sweet smell to it.

John Raglan sat behind the desk. He looked poised and calm, except for the two bright spots of blood that soaked the front of his vest. He was very dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**~ TWO ~**

Detective Esposito of the 12th Precinct Homicide Division squatted beside the body of John Raglan and scratched the top of his close-cropped head. He was a stocky man with a dark complexion, deep-set eyes and a hard jaw. He shook his head slowly. “This is probably the kind of thing that’s bad for business, huh, Castle?” He stood up and turned around. “What’d he hire you for, anyway?”

Rick Castle was leaning against a wooden filing cabinet with his hands in his pockets. He shrugged. “Never found out. He told me to come to the club tonight so we could talk about it. Seemed kind of nervous on the phone.”

The corner of Eposito’s mouth twitched. “I’m thinking maybe it had something to do with whoever put those two slugs in his chest.”

Castle grinned crookedly. “Guess the guy should have called me sooner.”

“The music must have drowned out the sounds of the shots,” Esposito said. “You see anything strike you as off tonight? Anyone hanging around who shouldn’t have been?” He walked around the desk, knelt in front of the door and started groping around on the green rug.

“Just the usual sorry lot you get in a joint like this,” Castle said. “Killer probably used the back door.”

Esposito’s back was to him. Castle wandered over behind the desk and peered down at it, his head cocked to one side. There was a blank memo pad sitting out, near Raglan’s right hand, with a stubby pencil next to it. The top sheet had been torn off carelessly, leaving ragged strip of paper along the top. Castle reached for it and held it up to the lamp. He could just make out the impression of whatever had been written on the torn off sheet. It was a name—Gary McAllister—written in a shaky hand. He set the memo pad back on the desk.

Esposito stood up and turned around. “No shells. What do you want to bet the powder guys come up empty?”

“You thinking it was professional job?”

“Feels that way. Killer could have laid in wait for him in that closet.” The homicide detective strolled across the room and jerked open the door of the closet. It was just roomy enough for a man to hide in. He bent and picked up something off the floor.

“What’d you find?” Castle asked.

“Gum wrapper.” He unfolded the tiny wad of paper and sniffed it. “Clark’s Tendermint.”

“Always been a Wrigley’s man, myself,” Castle said.

The door opened and a beautiful woman came in carrying a black doctor’s bag. She had a round, dark, face and almond-shaped eyes. “Evening, boys.”

Esposito looked up and grinned. “Must be my lucky night. I was hoping the M.E.’s office would send you, Lanie.”

Dr. Lanie Parish, forensic specialist with the Los Angeles medical examiner’s office, pursed her lips in irritation. “Yeah? Well I’m glad one of us is happy. _I_ was hoping to enjoy a quiet evening at home with a book and a bubble bath.”

Esposito smiled smoothly, exposing a row of even, white teeth. “If it makes you feel any better, you look stunning tonight, Doc.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Go on, copper.”

Castle rolled his eyes. “Get a room, you two.”

Lanie threw him a look. “Funny how you always seem to have your nose in it whenever there’s trouble, Rick.” She walked over to the dead man and set her bag on the desk. Then she stooped over Raglan’s body, peering closely at the two holes in his chest. “Two shots to the chest. Hard slugs, .32’s, probably. Close to the heart but not touching it.”

“How long after the shots before he died, you think?” Castle asked.

“Within a minute,” she said. “Maybe two.” She’d pulled a form pad out of her bag and was already scribbling notes for her report.

Castle gazed across the room at Raglan, the man who’d tried to hire him, and shook his head. “Poor sap.”


	3. Chapter 3

  
**~ THREE ~**   


The night clerk at the Hobart Arms was a dapper little man with thinning sandy hair and dull eyes. He was also half asleep when Rick Castle pushed open the swing doors at the street entrance and walked into the lobby. It was past midnight and the night porter had finished cleaning up and was dozing in his little room beside the elevator bank. A radio sounded faintly in the distance. The lights in the lobby had been dimmed and the place was deserted.

Castle strolled up to the front desk and tapped gently on the rose-colored marble.

The clerk raised one sleepy eyebrow in inquiry.

“Ryan here?” Castle asked.

“Radio room,” the clerk answered with a yawn and a jerk of his head.

Castle walked through a dim arch at the far end of the lobby. A tinny waltz came out of a big radio cabinet in the corner. A man was stretched out on a pale green davenport, lying on his side. Castle snorted. “They hire you to be the house dick or the house cat, Ryan?”

Kevin Ryan turned his head slowly and looked up at him. He was a good-looking man with curly brown hair and eyes that were a vivid, startling blue. “You’re a regular Jack Benny, aren’t you?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What do you want, Castle? I don’t expect it’s a social call this time of night.”

“I’m looking for a dame, a real knockout.”

“Yeah, well maybe if you got yourself a haircut, took a little more care with your appearance...”

“Who’s the comedian now?” Castle said, smiling wryly. “This dame’s a brunette, tall, maybe five-foot-nine. Went out tonight wearing a dark red dress and a little black beret. Ring any bells?”

Ryan leaned forward, clasping his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. “What’d she do?”

“Nothing, far as I know.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows and waited.

“The owner of the Delmar Club got himself offed tonight,” Castle said casually. “He might have been a client of mine and she might have gotten herself mixed up in it.”

“Coppers looking for her?”

“Not yet. Maybe they never will. Maybe she had nothing to do with it, I just want to ask her what she was doing there.”

Ryan stared at him for a long moment. Then he said: “Kate Beckett. She’s in 814. Got back an hour ago.”

 

Castle stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor and walked down the corridor to room 814. He paused outside the door, listening. He could hear soft footsteps padding around inside the room. He reached up and knocked quietly. There was a pause, and then he heard Kate Beckett say: “Who’s there?”

“Name’s Rick Castle.”

“What do you want? It’s late.”

“I saw you at the Delmar tonight.”

There was a pause, some more footsteps, and then: “It’s open.”

Castle turned the knob, stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. The room smelled of Shalimar and Palmolive. A dark green lady’s traveling case sat open on the made-up bed. The brunette from the Delmar Club sat in a chair next to the desk. She wore blue velvet lounging pajamas and her face had a pink, freshly-scrubbed look. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of one hand. In the other she held a small Browning semi-automatic.

He regarded her coolly, his dark eyes hard and steady on her face, ignoring the gun trained on him. “John Raglan’s dead,” he said. “But I’m guessing you know that.”

She scowled, but the arm holding the gun relaxed just a little. “Should have known you were a copper.”

“I’m not a copper, I’m a private dick.”

She laughed bitterly, curling her lip. “Coppers, dicks, you’re all the same.”

“Raglan was my client. I think you know who killed him.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t me?”

“That’s a .25 you’ve got there. Raglan was shot with a .32. And anyway you didn’t have a piece on you at the club. You also hadn’t fired one when you came out of the office or else I would have smelled the gunpowder on your hand.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I don’t know who killed Raglan, so you’re wasting your time.”

“What were you doing at the club tonight?”

“Having a drink.”

“Why’d you follow Raglan back to his office?”

“I was going to ask him for a job.”

“You’re lying.”

She shrugged and puffed on her cigarette. Then her face turned hard. “Prove it or take a hike, gum-heel.”

Castle smiled and backed towards the door. When he was almost there he said: “You ought to lock your door, Miss Beckett. There are some real no-good creeps out there.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she said.

He turned and opened the door to leave.

“Hey, copper,” she called out.

He looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget about Raglan. And you’ll forget you ever saw me.”

“Thanks for the tip, sister.”

“I’m not your sister,” she snapped. “Now get the hell out. It’s late and I need my sleep.”

“You and me both, sweetheart.” He tipped his hat and left, closing the door the behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**~ FOUR ~**

It was nearly ten o’clock the next morning before Rick Castle rolled over on his hard bed and squinted at the tinny alarm clock on the nightstand. He swung his bare feet onto the floor, yawned, and ran a hand over the stubble darkening his cheeks.

After a shave and shower he walked downstairs, bought a morning paper, and took it into the little coffee shop next to his apartment building. While he sipped his coffee and ate his breakfast of eggs and toast he scanned the piece on Raglan’s murder. It wasn’t much of a story, mostly just some background on Raglan, how was in the charter yacht business running tourists and fisherman down to Ensenada before he opened the Delmar Club.

While he finished the rest of his breakfast, Castle scanned the entertainment section. The story above the fold was about Eclipse Studios’ next big picture, _Scheherazade_. Studio head George Miller was in Italy scouting locations while the director, Orson Welles, interviewed actresses for the lead. Lauren Bacall was rumored to be the frontrunner.

When the girl behind the counter came by to top off his coffee he asked her if he could use their telephone book. She was a winsome young thing from the midwest, still green enough to think her big break was just a smile away, and she gave him her best Betty Grable impression as she pushed the directory across the counter. Castle thanked her gruffly and flipped to the M’s. When he’d found the address he needed he paid his bill and walked down to the parking lot where he’d left his tan-colored Commodore convertible.

Gary McAllister lived in a bungalow court on N. Martel just south of Santa Monica Blvd. Two rows of Mission-revival units faced onto a narrow strip of turf presided over by an anemic palm tree. McAllister’s was the last one on the right. Castle stepped over a couple of rolled up newspapers sitting on the porch and knocked. There was no answer. He pressed his ear against the door and listened. A horn blared out on the street, but all was silent inside the house. The Venetian blinds were drawn in all the front windows so he walked around to the back.

There was an orange tree behind the house and a little trellis covered with a tangle of sweetheart roses that was threatening to overtake the kitchen window. The back door was unlocked. He let himself into a yellow-and-black tiled kitchen. There were dirty dishes in the sink and empty beer cans on the counter. The house smelled faintly of old garbage. He went through a swing door into a dim, narrow hall which led to McAllister’s bedroom. The bed was unmade, the closet was still full of clothes, and there was a suitcase tucked up on the top shelf.

Castle wandered into the living room. The furniture was comfortable and traditional, with a tendency towards the bland. There was a pile of magazines on the coffee table which turned out to be mostly pulp and girlie rags. Beside them was a half-empty bottle of Scotch and a couple of dirty glasses. Sitting out on a bookshelf was a framed photograph of a young John Raglan standing on the deck of a yacht beside another man.

McAllister obviously hadn’t been home for a while, but he didn’t seem to have skipped town. And there were no signs of foul play. At least that’s what Castle thought until he saw the blood on the floor.

It was just a drop, hard to spot in the dim room. He almost stepped in it before he realized what it was. There was another one a few feet away, over in front of a small coat closet. He pulled open the closet door. The body of the man from the photo with Raglan was slumped on the floor, glassy-eyed. Gary McAllister, he presumed.

He knelt to examine the body. It wasn’t too ripe yet, but it was cold and stiff, so he could have been dead anywhere from eight to 24 hours. The left side of his head was bashed in. A bloody baseball bat was propped in the corner of the closet beside him.

Castle heard a subtle noise behind him, a creak of floorboards and a faint rustle of fabric. He spun around, rising to his feet, and froze.

A big brute of a man with pock-marked skin and a broad nose that had been broken one too many times stood in the middle of McAllister’s living room. In his hand was a Colt .32 semi-automatic pistol.

“Lemme see you reach,” the man said.

Castle dived at him. The big man side-stepped and swung the gun in an arc, glancing off the side of Castle’s head. He hit the floor, landing on his stomach. Pain radiated from his right temple, but he ignored it. He reached out, wrapped his hands around the big guy’s leg and jerked his foot off the floor.

The brute went down and his head glanced off the edge of the coffee table. The Colt hit the floor and skittered across the room. Castle started to go for it, but the big man was already getting up and he was closer to the gun. Instead he took a swing at the brute’s stomach and felt a moment’s satisfaction as the guy doubled over.

His triumph was short-lived. The brute reared up again and Castle’s dodge wasn’t quite fast enough to prevent the guy’s fist from connecting with his nose. He staggered backwards and felt another blow land on his jaw. While he was still recovering from that the brute managed to get his hands on the Colt.

A blow like a hammer came down on the side of Castle’s head. Blinding pain filled his senses. The world went white and then soundlessly, bottomlessly dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**~ FIVE ~**

Light rolled in gradually like a thick red fog. His head hurt, but it was a distant pain, like something that belonged to someone else’s body. He tried to will the light to go away so he could slip back into that blissful, cool darkness, but the pain in his head kept getting stronger, more insistent.

He thought he heard someone call his name, but he couldn’t be sure. Then he caught of whiff of Shalimar. Memory struggled to fight through the haze of his consciousness.

“Wake up, damn you.” It was a woman’s voice. One that he knew he should recognize.

Something wet hit him full in the face. It made his nose and his eyes burn. He sputtered and wiped the Scotch out of his eyes. When he could focus he saw Kate Beckett standing over him holding an empty glass.

“Helluva way to wake a guy up,” Castle mumbled. He was lying on the floor in Gary McAllister’s house. He sat up, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and the way it made the room tilt and sway. There was a lump the size of a ping pong ball on his skull. His nose didn’t feel so great either, but he didn’t think it was broken.

“We need to blow,” Kate said. “If I’m right we’re about to be all wrapped up in law.”

McAllister’s cold dead eyes gazed at him sightlessly from the open closet. Someone had moved the baseball bat out of the closet and placed it near Castle’s right hand. He didn’t need a fingerprint kit to know his prints would be on it, put there while he was unconscious.

“They set me up,” he said.

“It’s the only reason you’re alive. They wanted a patsy for McAllister’s murder.” She’d taken a handkerchief from her purse and was using it to wipe down the glass she’d been holding. Then she wiped off the bottle of Scotch and the baseball bat.

Something heavy and bulky bumped against Castle’s hip as he stood up. He reached into his coat pocket and his fingers closed around cold steel. He pulled a Colt .32 out of his pocket. It wasn’t his.

“And Raglan’s murder, too,” he said. “This looks like the gun that killed him.”

“Come on,” Kate said urgently. “There’s no time.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the back door.

The sun was high, casting a hazy yellow glow over the world outside the darkened house. A siren sounded in the distance, faint, but getting steadily louder. They hurried into the alley. Kate started to turn south, but he pulled her the other direction. “My car’s this way,” he said.

There were ballfields on the other side of the alley and the familiar sounds of a late afternoon baseball game drifted over the fence towards them: kids yelling, parents cheering, and the occasional crack of a bat. Over all of it the sound of a police siren could be heard, getting closer and closer. A few lots down from McAllister’s was a big new apartment building. Castle guided them out of the alley and alongside the apartments. His car was parked on the street out front. They walked towards it, slowly and purposefully.

As they approached the Hudson a prowl car turned onto the street, lights flashing, and Kate’s hand tightened convulsively in his. They watched as the police car sped past them and screeched to a stop in front of McAllister’s place. Two uniforms got out and hurried towards unit 940.

Castle opened the passenger door of the Hudson and handed Kate into the car. Then he got in and drove slowly and carefully away.

“Thanks,” he said when they’d blended safely into the traffic on Santa Monica Blvd. “I owe you for what you did back there.”

“I warned you to forget about me,” Kate replied, staring out the window.

“That’s not easy to do, sweetheart.”

She turned to look at him, her expression unreadable. “Where are we going?”

“My place,” he said. He smelled like a wino and there was blood on his shirt from his tangle with the brute. “I need a clean shirt and a stiff drink. And then you and I are going to have a talk.”


	6. Chapter 6

**~ SIX ~**

There were two chairs in Castle’s one-room apartment. Kate sat down in one of them while he went into the bathroom to change shirts. When he came back out, buttoning a freshly-laundered pin-stripe, she was smoking a cigarette, holding it in nervous fingers. Her face was drawn and tired.

“Funny how you always seem to turn up right after someone gets croaked,” he said, watching her carefully.

“I could say the same about you.” Her careless tone didn’t match the taut expression on her face.

Castle walked over to the table where he kept the drinks, poured two glasses of rye, and added some charged water to them. He offered one to Kate. She accepted it with a tense smile.

He put his drink down in a single gulp, made himself another, and then lowered himself into the other chair. The windows were open and music drifted in from a radio in one of the other apartments. “You want to tell me who killed Raglan and McAllister?” he asked.

Her eyes slid over to Castle, and then away again quickly. “I told you before. I don’t know.”

“But you know something. I’m willing to bet you know a lot.”

She sipped her drink and didn’t say anything. A bit of gray ash fell off the tip of her cigarette.

“All right,” Castle said, “I’ll start and then you can join in. I know Raglan and McAllister were part of a crew that used to run liquor out of Ensenada, and probably some dope, too. After the repeal Raglan got out of the game with enough money to buy the Delmar.”

She looked at him with new interest.

“Your turn,” he said.

She tapped her cigarette on the edge of ashtray. Then she said: “I know that eleven years ago an old buddy of Raglan’s talked him into helping out with an extortion scheme he’d cooked up.”

“Gary McAllister?”

“Maybe,” she said, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Probably.”

“Who were they blackmailing?”

“Anyone they’d supplied back in their smuggling days. Actors, businessmen, a few minor politicians.”

“Sounds risky.”

She crossed her long legs and leaned back in her chair. “There was a woman who worked in the Delmar back then who was desperate to make some extra money. There was no one to miss her if things went bad, so Raglan sent her to make the pick-ups. If the business went south and she got nabbed he figured no one would believe her. After all, why would he pull anything like that for such small stakes when his joint was doing so well?”

“I assume things went south?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “For a while things were jake. But there was a third guy who’d been in the smuggling racket with them, and when he got wind of what they were up to he wasn’t happy. He’d gone straight and turned himself into some kind of big man by then, someone with a reputation to protect. He got scared the blackmail scheme would backfire and some of their dirt would get on him, maybe expose his shady past. So he made them shut it down.”

“All right,” Castle said. “But that was all a long time ago, why bump off Raglan and McAllister now? And how do you figure into all of it?”

“The woman they sent to make the pick-ups was a dangerous loose end, as far as the third guy was concerned, so he had her silenced. Permanently. Only it turned out there was someone to miss her. She’d lied when she went to work for Raglan. She had a daughter back home. That’s why she needed the extra money so bad.”

“And you’re the daughter, I suppose? All grown up and looking for revenge.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You’re mocking me.”

“Not even a little,” he said. “Raglan told you all this?”

“Some of it came from my aunt. The rest Raglan spilled when I tracked him down. He got all weepy when I told him who I was, if you can believe it.” She laughed scornfully, grinding her cigarette out in the ashtray. “I guess he had a soft spot for my mother or something. But he wouldn’t give up the names of the other two men. I could tell he was afraid. Then yesterday he called me and told me to meet him at the club. He said he’d changed his mind, he was going to tell me who murdered my mother.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he was dying of stomach cancer. He must have decided he didn’t have anything to lose anymore.” She shrugged.

“And then he called me because he knew he’d be needing protection,” Castle said. “Or maybe because he knew you would.”

Kate looked at him sharply. Then her face went wooden. “Anyway, someone got there first and made sure Raglan didn’t talk to either of us.”

“Raglan managed to leave you a message before he croaked, though, didn’t he? He wrote McAllister’s name on the memo pad on his desk.”

She smiled faintly. “So that’s how you ended up at McAllister’s place. You are good.” She got up and walked over to the window.

“And now McAllister’s dead, too,” he said.

Her mouth was set in a hard line as she stared out at the street. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find out who was behind it and make him pay for what he did.” She looked back at Castle, her eyes as cold and beautiful as winter moonlight. “And I won’t let you get in my way.”

Castle met her gaze levelly. “They tried to frame me for two murders, sweetheart, I’ve got a horse in this race now. But there’s no reason we can’t work together, is there?”

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled and said. “No, there isn’t.” She walked over to where he was sitting and extended a slim hand. “I think we both need another drink, don’t you?”

As he handed her his glass the tips of her fingers brushed against his hand and lingered for a moment longer than they needed to. She smiled at him faintly, then turned around and carried both of their glasses to the drinks table. “I had all these stupid ideas about what I’d do when I finally confronted Raglan,” she said as she reached for the bottle of rye. “I fantasized about it for years. And then when I finally did met him...” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“It didn’t live up to your expectations?” he supplied.

“He cried. The fool actually cried. He was just so old and weak and ... and _sorry_. It took all the satisfaction out of hating him.”

Castle grunted. “Revenge is never as sweet as you think it ought to be.”

“Maybe so, but that’s not going to stop me from getting mine.” She turned around and held a fresh drink out for him.

He stood up and took it from her. “Here’s to working together,” he said.

“Bottoms up.” She clinked her glass against his and drained the whole thing. He followed her lead. They were standing close enough that he could smell her perfume. It filled up his senses.

She gazed at him intently. In her four-inch heels she was as tall as he was. “You think I’m a foolish girl, don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was thinking you’re one tough dame. And I wouldn’t want to be the man you’re looking for.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re sweet. I didn’t expect that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought L.A. was nothing but fake smiles and cutthroats.”

“Oh, it is, believe me.”

“Even you?”

He flashed a crooked grin. “I’m not half as sweet as I look.”

She laughed. It was a rich, husky sound. “Maybe you’re the exception that proves the rule.” She took the glass out of his hand and set it on the table next to hers. He couldn’t stop staring at her lips, which were the same lush vermillion as her nails. She moved closer, and one of her hands skimmed up his arm, coming to rest on his shoulder. Then she kissed him.

Her lips were hot against his, and he shivered. She pulled away and gazed at him, her eyes dark under her long lashes. There was something sorrowful about the way she was looking at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

She kissed him again, harder this time. He felt strangely light-headed. He swayed on his feet and felt her long fingers wrap around his arms, steadying him.

“Come on,” she said, leading him over to the bed.

He followed, stumbling a little. She pressed her lips to his ear. Her breath was warm and soft against his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He wanted to ask why but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. Something wasn’t right. He was sickeningly woozy all of a sudden. Then he realized what had happened. She’d slipped him a Mickey Finn.

“Kate—” he managed to rasp. And then he was falling. He landed on something soft, probably the bed. He couldn’t control his limbs anymore, was only half conscious, but he felt her lips on his again, light and cool this time. “You really do seem like one of the good guys,” she said softly. “Which is why I can’t let you get in my way.”

And then the world went dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**~ SEVEN ~**

Castle was dragged back to consciousness by the sound of someone pounding on his door, loudly and relentlessly. The mother of all hangovers caused every knock to feel like a nail being hammered into his skull.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned. “Shut up, I’m coming.” Blissfully, the pounding stopped.

He swung his feet to the floor and stood up, swaying a little. The room was as dark as the night outside. He stumbled over to the table and switched on the lamp. His wristwatch said it was eight o’clock. It had been six hours since Kate had drugged him.

He looked around the apartment but there was no sign she’d ever been there. The ashtray had been emptied and the glasses had been carefully washed and put away. She was thorough, he had to give her that. He uncorked the rye and drank a slug straight out of the bottle.

The pounding on his door started up again.

“I said I’m coming,” he yelled, then winced at the wave of nausea caused by his own voice. The pounding didn’t stop again until he threw open the door.

Detective Esposito stood in the hall. “Hey, Castle,” he said. “How’s tricks?” He walked into the apartment without waiting for an invitation and cast his eyes around the place.

“Looking for something?” Castle asked darkly.

“Nope.” Esposito looked back at Castle and cocked an eyebrow in amusement. “You look like hell on a raft. Rough night?”

“I got a bad egg,” Castle said.

“I’ll bet,” Esposito smirked.

Castle didn’t have a lot of patience for Esposito’s games at the moment. Not with a raging headache and the gun that killed Raglan tucked into his bureau drawer. “Something I can help you with, Esposito?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. You know a guy named Gary McAllister?”

Castle gazed at Esposito with eyes that were clear and even and perfectly candid. “Should I?”

“He got his brains bashed in with a baseball bat last night. Body was discovered in his house this afternoon.”

Castle shook his head sadly. “Sounds painful. What’s it got to do with me?” He walked over to the desk and rummaged around for his rolling papers and tobacco.

“He was a silent partner in the Delmar Club,” Esposito said, watching Castle carefully. “Kind of a funny coincidence him getting bumped off the same night as Raglan.”

Castle looked up at him. “It’s probably not a coincidence.”

Esposito nodded. “Probably not. I thought you might still be working the case.”

“Not me. Once the cops get involved I butt right out.”

“Yeah, sure you do,” Esposito said, snorting pleasantly. “That reminds me, the bartender at the Delmar says he saw a nice-looking dame go into the back shortly before you found Raglan. You see her?”

“There were a lot of nice-looking dames at the Delmar last night,” Castle said, concentrating on the cigarette he was rolling.

“This one was a tall brunette in a red dress. A knockout, or so the bartender says.”

Castle’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I’m more inclined to notice the blondes, myself.”

“Weren’t both your ex-wives brunette, Castle?”

“Why do you think I switched to blondes?” he said, holding the finished cigarette in one hand and his lighter in the other. “You got any other leads?”

“A thug named Dick Coonan was spotted in McAllister’s neighborhood last night. Could be nothing, though.”

Castle put the cigarette in his mouth and set fire to it. “Coonan?” he said around a mouthful of smoke. “The name rings a bell for some reason.”

“Guy’s got a rap sheet as long as my arm, I’d be surprised if you hadn’t bumped up against him at some point.”

“You pick him up?”

“He’s in the wind. We’ll get him eventually, though.” Esposito’s dark eyes narrowed. “You sure you’re not working this case?”

Castle gazed back at him mildly. “Not much chance of me getting my retainer with the client dead. There’s no case to work, as far as I’m concerned. Now, if there’s nothing else, Esposito, I’ve got a hot date with some Alka-Seltzer.”

The homicide detective left looking vaguely dissatisfied. Castle stood by the window and took his time finishing his cigarette. When he was done with it he went to the telephone on the desk, had the operator patch him through to the Hobart Arms, and asked to speak to Kevin Ryan.

“What can I do for you, amigo?” asked the hotel dick cheerfully when he got on the line.

“Kate Beckett,” Castle said. “Don’t suppose she’s still there?”

“Checked out a few hours ago.”

“Forwarding address?”

“Bogus,” Ryan said. “I already checked. Had a feeling you’d be asking.”

“Figures,” Castle said.

“She left a message for you, though.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. Want me to read it?”

“Hit me.”

“Hang on.” Castle drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee while Ryan tracked down the message and opened it. He came back on the line after a minute. “Got it right here. It says ... wow, it says: ‘Forget you ever met me.’”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, pal,” Ryan said. There was a moment’s silence. Then he said: “You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Kate Beckett?”

“Not right now,” Castle said. “But if you buy the drinks, maybe one night I’ll spill the whole sorry story.”


	8. Chapter 8

  
**~ EIGHT ~**   


Thursby’s Billiards Parlor was a cheap joint in a cheap section of town frequented by cheap characters. It was sandwiched between a pawn shop and a seedy hotel where mean men loitered, smoking roll-ups and drinking out of paper bags.

Rick Castle went down the steps and into the dim, cave-like poolroom. He paused by the door and scanned the place until he found what he was looking for: a tall, lanky man leaning over a table at the back. He was playing against a gray-haired man with an old scar zig-zagging along his jawline. Castle pulled a sawbuck from his wallet and a Cross pen from his breast pocket. He wrote the name Perlmutter on the bill, followed by a question mark, and folded it in half. Then he made his way over to the table in the back. The tall man was studying the set-up, taking his time. After a moment he made a graceful, extremely impressive three-cushion shot. The small crowd that had gathered around him whooped and cheered.

Castle stepped up next to him and slapped the bill down on the edge of table. “Five-spot he misses the next one.”

The tall man gazed at him impassively. Then he bent and hit a ball that was frozen to the rail with enough inside English to send it sliding smoothly into the corner pocket. There were more cheers, along with some jeers for Castle. The tall man pocketed Castle’s ten dollars, set down his cue and said, “Back in a mo, I got to see a man.” He disappeared into the men’s room. A few minutes later he came back out and reached for his cue. He looked lazily at Castle. “Want to let it ride, buddy?”

Castle shook his head. “I know when I’m beat.”

The man reached into his vest pocket and handed over a folded five-dollar bill. Castle stuck around to watch the next few shots, then quietly detached himself and headed for the door. When he was out on the street he took the five out of his pocket and read the address that was written on it. He smiled to himself and started walking.

 

Sidney Perlmutter was a pale, thin-lipped man with a receding hairline and a tense face. He jerked open the door of his flea-bag motel room and then tried to slam it shut again as soon as he saw who was standing on the other side.

Castle stuck his foot in the door and gave it a hard shove, sending Perlmutter reeling backwards. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, looking around in distaste. The wallpaper was peeling and discolored, the bedclothes were in a jumble on the floor, and the chipped washbasin was draped with dirty towels. The place smelled like a wet dog that had rolled in vomit. “Nice place you got here, Perlmutter. You’re really moving up in the world.”

Perlmutter glared at him. “Nobody asked you in, Castle.”

“Relax, pal, I just need a little information and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Bald jokes,” Perlmutter scowled. “You’re a real wise guy, you know that? Who says I’m interested in helping you?”

Castle pulled a fifty out of his pocket and held it up. “You’re a good stoolie, Perlmutter. My friend President Grant says so.”

Perlmutter licked his lips, exposing his small nicotine-stained teeth. “Okay, but make it quick, I don’t have all day.”

“Yeah, you’ve probably got the King of England coming to tea any minute now,” Castle said with a sneer. “I wanna know who Dick Coonan’s been working for lately.”

Perlmutter gave him a swift, sidelong glance. “I don’t know anything about that. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. You better go now.”

“I think you do know something and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“No way,” Perlmutter said, jerking his head back and forth. “I tell you anything and I’m as good as dead.”

Castle gave him a cold, steady look. He spoke very quietly: “You don’t tell me and I’ll finger you for that bank job you pulled last summer. You’ll be back in the slammer before you can say Jack Robinson.”

Perlmutter swallowed hard, his eyes wide as saucers. “Look, I don’t know who Coonan’s working for, okay? All I know is it’s someone important. Someone too big to talk about.”

“What else?”

Perlmutter fidgeted, casting another sidelong look at Castle. “I may have heard Coonan’s been going in and out of the Knickerbocker lately. But that’s it. I swear!”

“Good boy,” Castle said, and tossed the fifty onto the floor at Perlmutter’s feet. “Go find yourself a better hole to crawl into.”

 

Castle ducked into a phone booth on the street outside Perlmutter’s place. He got the desk of the Knickerbocker Hotel on the line asked if anyone was staying in the penthouse.

“No sir,” said the neat, prim voice on the phone. “Our penthouse suite is currently unoccupied.”

“Great. In that case I’d like to book it for tonight.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid the penthouse is currently undergoing some repairs and is unavailable.”

“How long’s it going to be unavailable?”

“I really can’t say. But we have some lovely suites available on the eleventh floor if you’re interested.”

“No thanks,” Castle said, and hung up.


	9. Chapter 9

  
**~ NINE ~**   


Dick Coonan rubbed his tired eyes and yawned. He badly wanted a slug of gin and smoke, but his boss was a puffed-up son of a bitch who wouldn’t let him have either when he was on the job. Instead, he pulled a pack of Clark’s Tendermint gum out of his pocket and popped a stick in his mouth.

There was a knock on the penthouse door. Coonan grimaced, reached for the revolver sitting beside his chair and hauled himself to his feet. He snatched a newspaper off the coffee table and strolled over to the door. There was more knocking, louder this time, but Coonan’s movements were unhurried as he carefully arranged the newspaper so it concealed the gun he held in his hand. Only then did he open the door, saying gruffly: “What do you want?”

His sleepy eyes widened in recognition just as Rick Castle whipped a blackjack out of his pocket and smashed Coonan’s wrist with it. The gun and the newspaper both fell to the floor. While Coonan was still clutching his shattered wrist, Castle snatched the revolver off the floor and pointed it at him.

“Inside,” Castle snapped. “Let’s go.”

Coonan backed away from the the door. “You’re supposed to be in the clink.”

“I’m full of surprises today,” Castle said. “Lemme see your mitts. And keep walking.”

Coonan put his hands up and turned around. He took two steps into the penthouse suite and then Castle’s blackjack smashed into the back of his skull, knocking him out cold.

Castle closed the penthouse door and stepped over Coonan’s body. He was in a high-ceilinged living room with a row of French windows along one side leading out to a terrace. The room was handsomely furnished, with thick red carpet and crisp white box drapes around the windows. There were two glasses sitting out on the coffee table, both half full. He tucked the blackjack back in his pocket but held the revolver in his right hand.

“Come on out,” Castle said loudly. “Your bodyguard’s down, it’s just you and me now.”

For a moment nothing happened. Then a man walked out of one of the bedrooms. George Miller, the president of Eclipse Films, gazed at Castle coolly and said, “You’re a damned persistent fellow, aren’t you?”

“And you’re supposed to be out of the country, scouting movie locales.”

Miller shrugged. He had gray hair and a broad face. His dark suit was dashingly cut. “I thought it might be useful to have an alibi, just in case. And the newshounds are so easy to mislead.”

There was a knock on the door. Miller looked alarmed, but Castle just smiled. “Right on time,” he said. Then he called out, “Come on in, sweetheart.”

Kate Beckett opened the door and walked into the room, side-stepping Coonan’s body. “How’d you know it would be me?” she asked irritably.

“I knew you were following me. Letting me lead you to our friend Miller, here.”

She walked past Castle, went right up to Miller and slapped him across the face. “You killed my mother,” she spat.

Miller stared at her sadly, his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t pull the trigger, but it was my fault all the same. If it means anything, I’m sorry about it.”

“It doesn’t.” she said. “Who’d you hire to do it?”

He jerked his head. “Mr. Coonan over there.”

Kate spun around and stared at the unconscious lump that was Coonan. Then she pulled the Baby Browning out of her handbag and walked towards him.

“Kate,” Castle said sharply.

If she heard him she didn’t show it. She knelt beside Coonan’s body and pressed the barrel of the gun against the middle of Coonan’s forehead. Her eyes were hard as granite and she held the gun in a strong, steady hand. Her thumb disengaged the safety.

Castle closed the distance between them and wrenched the gun out of her hand. He flipped the safety back on and tossed it across the room, out of reach.

“What’d you do that for?” she demanded angrily.

“You don’t want to do this, sweetheart.”

She stared at him. “Of course I do! What do you think all this has been about?” Her expression was contemptuous, the lines of her face hard.

Castle shook his head. “I’m not letting you kill a man in cold blood. Hate can twist you up inside but once you cross that line there’s no going back.”

“How touching,” said a voice behind him.

Castle spun around. Another man had come out of the bedroom and was standing beside George Miller. In his right hand he held a Luger, aimed at Castle’s head. Castle had switched the revolver he’d taken off of Coonan to his left hand when he’d wrestled Kate’s gun away from her. He calculated the odds of making a shot with his off hand and decided they were bad.

“You really ought to have asked my brother if there was anyone else here,” said the man dryly. “Surely you don’t think we’d allow our bodyguard to drink while he’s on the clock?”

Castle looked at the two glasses on the table and then back at the man, cursing himself for not guessing that there might be someone else behind all of this. George Miller was the face of Eclipse Films and the one who got the credit for making the movies, but his brother Sam was the one who ran the business and handled all the money. That was the word around town, anyway.

“Give that piece to George,” Sam Miller said. “Nice and easy.”

Castle handed Coonan’s revolver over to George, who took it reluctantly.

“We’d better not do this here,” Sam said to his brother. “Get your hat and coat. You’re going to help me walk them out.”

George Miller didn’t move. His face was gray and sick-looking. “What are you going to do with the girl?” he asked.

“What do you think I’m going to do with her?” Sam replied contemptuously.

George closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again they were cold. He shook his head. Coonan’s revolver was in his right hand. “It’s gone too far, Sam. I can’t live with it anymore.”

Sam Miller stared his brother coldly. “There’s no backing out now. You got us into this mess when you got mixed up with those idiots McAllister and Raglan, now you’re going play out the rest of the hand.”

“I’m sorry,” George said sadly. “But I’m through.” The revolver in his hand was leveled at his brother. “Put your gun away, Sam.”

Sam Miller laughed. “You’re going to shoot me? You don’t have the guts.”

“I’m sorry,” George said again, and fired the gun.

The Luger in Sam’s hand went off at nearly the same moment. The two brothers stared at one another.

George said: “I guess I had the guts after all.” Then he crumpled slowly to one side until he was lying on the floor with his cheek pressed against the rug. His arm twitched, and then he was still.

Sam stared down at his brother’s limp body. Blood was beginning to soak into the carpet. “He never was worth a damn,” Sam said sourly. “The artistic types rarely are.”

“Someone will have heard the shots,” Castle said. “The law will be on their way by now.”

Sam Miller swung the Luger back to Castle. His expression was wooden. “Maybe, maybe not. It shouldn’t be too hard to make up a story for them, in any case. When Coonan wakes he’ll be able to testify that you shoved in here, took his gun off him, and knocked him out.”

“George was shot with your gun,” Castle pointed out. “I’ll bet it’s registered to you and everything.”

“He was caught in the crossfire,” Sam said calmly. “A tragic accident. I was aiming for you.” His knuckles whitened on the trigger.

Castle dove at him. He grabbed Miller’s right arm and tried to wrestle the gun away from him. They struggled, the gun caught between them. Out of the corner of his eye Castle saw Kate go for the Browning he’d tossed away.

The Luger went off.

Miller staggered backwards. Something warm and wet was all over Castle’s hands. He looked down and saw a dark red spot blooming on the front of his vest.

 _That’s strange_ , he thought. _Why can’t I feel anything?_ His legs gave out beneath him. As the floor came up to meet him he heard Kate’s .25 go off. There was a ringing in his ears as his vision tunneled into blackness, but he thought he heard Kate’s voice in the distance, calling his name.

The smell of Shalimar filled up his senses.

 * * *

“Rick?” Kate said. “Come on, Castle, open your eyes.”

His eyes flickered open.

Kate was smiling down at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Welcome back,” she said.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice came out raspy and thin, and it hurt to talk.

Kate’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Did you just call me sweetheart?”

“What?” His throat was parched and his head was hurting. Like, a _lot_. He looked around in confusion.

He was lying in a pale green hospital room with vertical blinds across the window. A TV set mounted in the corner was tuned to TCM and _The Big Sleep_ was playing at low volume. On the table beside his bed there was a large bouquet of daffodils and a teddy bear holding a mylar balloon that said “Get Well Soon.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“You don’t remember throwing yourself into the path of a fleeing suspect, getting bowled over, and cracking your head on the curb?”

“No.” The last thing he remembered was ... something about a gun and a hotel room. The memory slipped away from him even as he tried to hold onto it.

“Well, that’s probably just as well.” Beckett said. Her smile faded. “You’ve been unconscious for 24 hours, Castle. You gave us all quite a scare.”

“Alexis.” He tried to sit up, but he was too weak to do much more than lift his head, and even that was an agony.

“She went down to the cafeteria with your mom, but they should be back any minute.” Beckett hitched a thumb uncertainly towards the door. “Do you want me to go get them?”

He shook his head, but the movement made him feel dizzy and nauseated. “Don’t go,” he mumbled weakly. He didn’t want to be left alone in this strange hospital room he had no memory of being brought to. More importantly, he didn’t want Kate to leave him again. He couldn’t actually remember when she’d left him before, he just knew he needed her to stay.

He felt Beckett thread her fingers through his. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, squeezing his hand gently.

Her touch was warm and reassuring, like a lifeline pulling him into the present, out of the fog that still clung to the corners of his mind. He could remember all the basics: the year, the president, his telephone number, the name of first girl he’d ever kissed. But the day before was a jumbled blur. He knew they’d been investigating the shooting of a nightclub owner but he couldn’t remember the victim’s name or even the name of the club where he was found. He had a vague idea that he’d left the precinct with Beckett, but he couldn’t remember where they’d been going or anything that happened after that.

“Do me a favor,” Beckett said. “Promise me you’ll never do anything that stupid again.”

He tried to form a grin which probably ended up closer to a grimace. “Did we get the bad guy?”

Beckett smiled, shaking her head a little. “Yeah, Castle, we caught the bad guy.”

“Then it was worth it,” he said.

“No,” she said, all serious again. “It really isn’t.” She was still holding his hand and it finally dawned on his befuddled brain that her eyes were red because she’d been crying. Over him.

For once in his life he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Neither of them spoke but she stayed by his side, perched on the edge of his hospital bed, and didn’t let go of his hand until Alexis and Martha came back from the cafeteria. While his mother and daughter crowded around him, alternately hugging him and scolding him, Beckett backed off to the far corner of the room, but she didn’t leave. She was still there, quietly standing vigil an hour later when the nurse finally chased everyone out, insisting that Castle needed to rest.

Even after his mother and Alexis had said their goodbyes, Beckett lingered by the door. “Ryan and Esposito will probably want to come see you in the morning, if that’s okay,” she said.

“Yeah, of course,” he said.

She nodded, but still she didn’t leave. Her expression was oddly hesitant, like there was something she wanted to tell him, but was afraid to say aloud. Or maybe that was just his imagination running amuck. He’d never known Beckett to be afraid of anything.

“You’re coming back tomorrow, right?” he asked. The doctor had told him he’d need to stay in the hospital for a least a couple more days.

She didn’t say anything for so long he’d almost convinced himself she was going to say no. Then one corner of her mouth twisted into a smile. “Of course,” she said. “Where else would I be?”

“Good,” he said, relieved.

She held his gaze for a moment longer before saying, “I’m glad you’re okay, Castle.” Then she turned and slipped out of the room.

He sagged back into the bed and closed his eyes, grinning like a schoolboy despite his exhaustion and the throbbing in his head. Kate would be back tomorrow. For now, that was all he needed to know. There’d be time to figure out the rest of it later.


End file.
